


Considering

by Little_Cello



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Cello/pseuds/Little_Cello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time seemed to slow, to give Sam ample opportunity to fully realize that he was going to die here, strangled by a madman who enjoyed what he was doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Considering

Considering he was about to die, his mind was rather clear. There was room for a lot of thoughts, a lot of sensations.

 

The rope around his neck – very rough material, and definitely leaving bruises – tightened mercilessly and cutting his breathing off.

 

The metal bars – cold, really cold, and also chipped here and there – digging into his back and shoulders.

 

The wind – chilly, of course, winter still having a tight grip on Manchester – sweeping around him, cruelly reminding him of his own predicament.

 

The ground – corroded tarmac, not safe to walk on in the dark – making it hard, so hard for his shuffling and kicking legs to find proper support.

 

The specks of light – it was night, but it was a full moon as well, and there must be street lamps outside – reminding him of where he should be, and where he was instead.

 

And finally, the constant stream of hot breath against his neck – ragged, but also laughing – coming so steadily and making him struggle even more desperately.

 

It was when the pressure let up and Sam took a reflexive breath, nearly choking on it, that his mind clouded up. He barely heard the question, only realized it must have been uttered when the rope tightened again and he gasped, a desperate attempt to catch his breath, but it was no use, of course it wasn't. His heart was racing along with his thoughts now, and he knew that if this continued, at one point it would give out entirely.

 

Time seemed to slow, to give Sam ample opportunity to fully realize that he was going to die here, strangled by a madman who enjoyed what he was doing. At this point, he would gladly have given the answer to the man's question, anything to get rid of the rope, but he couldn't muster the strength to talk.

 

“Stubborn lil' copper, aren't ya.”

 

The man was behind him, so close, so bloody close, but Sam couldn't reach him. One well-placed kick, and he would be free, but it was impossible. Stupid bloody bars. His mouth opened, but the only sound that escaped was a gasp, utterly breathless, and his torturer probably hadn't even heard it. Sam Tyler would exit this world without so much as a sound. He wanted to laugh.

 

And then, the rope relaxed again, and Sam's chest hitched as he attempted to gulp in air, and tried again, and this time, miraculously, he did hear the question.

 

“Where'd you hide the little bitch? I know it were you who hid 'er from me.”

 

Sam tried to stagger away from the bars, but the rope, the bloody rope, it tightened again, and _no no NO_ , and the man laughed and pulled harder, drawing a helpless, terribly helpless noise from Sam's lips.

 

“You ain't goin' nowhere.”

 

_No, I probably really won't._

 

Sam knew he shouldn't be clawing at the rope, because the fingers digging into his throat would actually make it worse, but he didn't bloody care any more and tried anyway, and of course it didn't help a bit. He thought he heard an engine outside, but it probably was just the massive roaring in his head, drowning out even the steady beeping of the heart monitor. The heart monitor. Heart monitor? He hadn't heard that thing in weeks. He'd only heard Ray's insults and Chris' pointless questions and Annie's teasing remarks and Phyllis' biting comebacks and Gene's convoluted metaphors and where were they now, he didn't want to go, didn't want to be left alone again, didn't... did...

 

Something was cutting at his back as he started to slowly slide down towards the floor, but with his body growing numb, he didn't really feel the pain at all. All sounds around him merged and were sucked into the roaring which grew louder, ever louder, and _this is it_ and _god how ridiculous_ and _shouldn't have gone out alone_ –

 

And _dammit Gene you're too late again_

 

and _Annie I'll miss_

 

and _I_

 

and

 

_Gene_

 

~*~

 

Sam came to with a start and a gasp and the feeling that his entire chest and throat were on fire. There were hands on him, on his chest, his face, his back, touching his neck –

 

He jerked back, reflexes fighting each other as he both tried to draw in breath and soothe the burning in his body. Voices around him, muted and unrecognisable, and he was shifted, and then the hands were on his throat again. _DON'T._ Sam fought, desperately, trying to get away, somewhere no hands and no ropes could reach him, until his reeling brain registered that the fingers weren't bruising, weren't choking him, but actually massaging, helping. The burning eased up ever so slightly, and a moment later Sam drew a shallow, shaky breath. And another.

 

“That's it Sammy-boy, keep bloody breathin'.”

 

The voice was cutting through the haze, the confusion, the despair, cutting like a knife, only it didn't hurt. Sam obeyed, breathing in, in, in – and out. In again. Too much at once, he had to cough. The coughing didn't stop. Sam curled up into himself, thinking that any moment his lungs would explode. Until the hands were on his back, patting, helping. Shaking uncontrollably, Sam exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. Concentrated hard on the rhythm to keep it going. On the rhythm, and the hands.

 

“I'll go get an ambulance.” _Annie_. Sam made a feeble attempt to move towards her voice, but the same hands held him back.

 

“Yer in no state to be prancin' around yet, Tyler.” _Gene._ Sam relaxed. He was the guv, he must know what was good. The rhythm, Sam, keep up the rhythm. In, and out. In, and out. In, out. In... out...

 

Sam felt his breathing slow. What a marvellous thing, breath. How could he ever have gone through his life without paying any attention to the air he was breathing? It was the sweetest thing in the world. Sam felt like laughing out loud over how marvellous it felt.

 

“Figures you'd be grinnin' like a loon right after nearly chokin' to death.”

 

Careful not to disrupt his breathing, Sam gave the lightest snort, and opened his eyes.

 

It was still dark, but he could just make out Gene's shape looming over him, close, so close. As the haze on his mind cleared away, Sam started to piece together the events of the last few minutes. Which made him realize something.

 

“Henderson. Where's Henderson...” Sam broke off when he realized that his voice was gone, or very nearly so, and only a wheezing sound escaped his lips. He coughed once, his breath hitching, and there was a pang of panic before he concentrated on Gene's hand, rubbing his back.

 

Gene must have caught Sam's meaning, for he said, “Took 'im down. Clean shot. Outdid meself.” And he gave Sam that lopsided one-millisecond-smirk of his, the one that always made him smile back. When the next cough came, he wasn't afraid of it any more, knowing that it would pass.

 

“And you, Tyler, outdid yerself too. Comin' out 'ere, dead of the night, on yer own, to search out that maniac – Christ, Sam, you should know better.”

 

His brain still must be addled, because Sam found himself agreeing with Gene. He really should have known better. After seeing the other victims, the vivid red marks on their necks and expressions of utter terror on their forever frozen faces. His face had very nearly ended up like that as well. Annie wouldn't have liked that. Gene wouldn't have liked that.

 

“But y'know, at least now I won't 'ave to listen to your prattlin' all day long. Everything's got a bright side, eh?”

 

Sam's laugh was soundless as his hands, still so weak, dropped away from his throat. He banned the thought of permanent bruising from his mind. Concentrated on something else instead.

 

Not his breathing – careful, still slightly laboured – soothing his burning lungs.

 

Not the wind – soft, cool – caressing his face.

 

Not the ground – surprisingly comfortable – giving solidity to his slightly reeling thoughts.

 

Not the specks of light – the moon, shining in through a broken roof – promising Sam a life outside of this building.

 

Considering he had very nearly died, his mind was rather clear. There was room for only one thought, only one sensation.

 

_Gene._

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this in one go at roughly 2AM in the morning, being utterly sleep-deprived and needing to get strangled!Sam out of my system. Seems to have worked. :D


End file.
